


How to Survive

by ThatAj



Series: Exposure: One Step at a Time [19]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, HIV/AIDS, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, POV Brian Kinney (Queer as Folk), POV First Person, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 01:03:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18297251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatAj/pseuds/ThatAj
Summary: I had expected Justin to shout, to become indignant, defensive. To give me something to get some friction against, to continue to rage against, to fill my mind with expletives because that was preferable to any other possibility in this nightmare. Instead he answered quietly, “No, Brian.”Brian and Justin face another challenge together.Thank you toBecca_HopeandTagsitfor helpful plot bunnies for this part! I hope you're not disappointed.





	How to Survive

**Author's Note:**

> And...that’s 100K, In less than 6 months. I sure didn’t expect that. Thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, and otherwise encouraged me. The anxiety about sharing my writing is real and that has all kept me going. <3

I was in our home office when it happened. Ted had been hounding me to get him an official copy of our domestic partnership certificate, which had arrived earlier that week. We had gone on the Friday after the new year to get our domestic partnership. Theodore had begged us to wait until after new year’s to make 2006’s taxes easier. With a domestic partnership we would have to create two versions of our federal tax return - one as single and one as married - and file the single version and use the married version for our state taxes - and Ted wanted one more year of relative simplicity. So we waited and I told him that was his Christmas present for the year. Ted actually thanked me. Jesus. 

Getting the domestic partnership had all the romance of a trip to the DMV, which suited me just fine. The smile on Justin’s face when we went to the Rothko exhibit afterward suited me just fine as well. 

Despite having apparently never being introduced to a hanger or a dresser drawer, Justin is incredibly organized when it comes to paperwork. I would say obsessively so but, well… He’s in charge of all our papers and has them each in clearly labeled files. My papers too. What I’m saying is, I wasn’t looking at Justin’s private stuff. So I was surprised when I saw an HIV test result dated the day after Thanksgiving from a San Francisco testing spot. Not that I was surprised that Justin had taken an HIV test. We both do. But that’s the thing. We both do. We go together at the start of every quarter. Another Justin thing. He says it makes it easier for him to remember. So we had both gone on January 1. And those test results were in the file marked “HIV - JT” as they had always been and mine in “HIV - BK.” I wouldn’t be opposed to the lad wanting some privacy, after all “his and his” HIV tests were a little much for me, but that was a me problem, not a Justin problem. Along with the Thanksgiving test were also test results for nearly every week since then, except for when we had been in Pittsburgh for Hanukkah and Christmas - over two month’s worth of tests. All loose, unfiled.

Before you accuse me of burying the lede here, they were all negative. Which is even more baffling, right? 

I started trying to fit these new pieces into the overall picture of our life. We had been back in LA for over a month. The trip to Pittsburgh for the holidays was a good time had by all, even I’m willing to admit that. Gus was more and more a person rather than a blob. He had been a cute blob, he has my genes after all, but a blob nonetheless. Justin and I had dinner at Tori and Ana’s a couple of times and they talked more about eventually relocating to Los Angeles, where Ana had lived before meeting Tori, and quite literally getting her band back together. I got to spend time with Mikey, getting stoned and going to the movies. And Justin and I had dinners with him and Ben and Hunter, who was in the process of looking at local community colleges where he could go to improve his GPA before transferring to a four year school. It always takes me by surprise that he’s only five years younger than Justin. I don’t often think of Justin as privileged - what’s all the money in the world worth when you’ve been through the shit he’s been through? - until you compare him with someone going through shit without that safety net that money provides. And say what you will about Craig and Saint James Academy - and I will say a lot so don’t get me started - the actual education he got wasn’t terrible. And I guess there’s something to be said for not being sex trafficked as a kid. 

Justin got to spend plenty of time with Mother Taylor and Debbie, who both needed to lay hands on him to make sure he was still among the land of the living and I hadn’t sold him to the circus or something. We did the last night of Hanukkah with the girls. Gus was finally old enough the hold the shamash and understand the basics of dreidel. The next night we did Seven Fishes at Debbie’s with the all guys, my eyes on Justin the whole time to make sure he didn’t accidentally eat any shellfish. Christmas Day was with the Taylors with honeybaked ham and lots of white wine. At each fête, I drank plenty of whisky and attempted an Irish goodbye just to ensure all of our heritages were appropriately honored. I was grateful we had kept the loft for easy access to Babylon to blow off steam each night. I had gotten so used to living...unsupervised that all the attention was a bit overwhelming. Exiting Babylon each night, my eyes would be drawn to the lamppost where, through the steam rising out of the manhole covers into the frigid night air, I could see our past selves, eyes locked, in that ghost spot. 

We returned to LA for New Year’s Eve and went to The Abbey with expensive open-bar tickets. The drinks were strong and the men were hot and we stumbled home around 3 AM and fell into bed, both too far gone to shower, and woke up well after noon with the sheets filled with glitter.

Justin had started back at Cal Arts. With priority registration, he had been able to schedule his classes only on days when Quinn was teaching. He also learned from the Disability Services Office that he was qualified for other accommodations to help with his short-term memory and executive functioning issues from the bashing and long-term PTSD, like notetakers and audio-recording his lectures. I was frustrated, and I know he was too, that no one had ever mentioned this before when he was at PIFA. Apparently, it was a matter of knowing not only the right questions to ask, but also knowing there was a question to ask in the first place. Justin also applied for and was accepted to an independent study so he could earn course credit for working on Rage, which he would have done anyway, so it was a win-win and no internship programs were harmed in the process. Mikey having to sign off as Justin’s supervisor gave me endless joy.

I guess this was all to say that things were chugging along pretty smoothly, or at least I had thought, until I was standing in our home office with months’ worth of HIV tests in my hands. All Justin’s and all negative. And it’s not like I micromanage his dick or his ass or whatever weird kink the kid is trying these days. We always practiced safer sex together and apart. My mind tried to fit it all together into something, anything, that added up and made sense. And, let me tell you, nothing I came up with was particularly pleasant. I was so caught up in catastrophizing that I missed hearing the door open. 

“Hey,” Justin said softly. “What are you - “

He stopped abruptly when I turned to face him and he saw what I was holding.

“What are you doing with those?” He glared at me. 

“Justin, I was just - I was looking for our certificate of partnership.” I responded. “For Ted.” I added, unnecessarily. 

He nodded slightly. “You still had no right.”

“I know. But...they were just sitting there. Tell me you wouldn’t have looked at them?” I challenged him. I felt my eyes narrow and anger bubble up. Justin glanced around the room, panicky, like a caged animal. Like he had been caught. And that was the fucking thing right there. But caught doing what? “What have you done?”

“Nothing!” He wrapped his arms around his waist like he was holding himself from flying into a million pieces. 

“Don’t bullshit me, kid. No one takes this many HIV tests for nothing.” Justin looked up at me helplessly. Like he didn’t know where to go from here. I tried to get my voice under control, to sound less like me, I guess. Because no matter what, Justin looking scared and helpless does things to me, like make me try to soften my edges. “Did you have unprotected sex?”

“No! You know I would never…”

I couldn’t help it, because fuck that, any urge to protect him evaporated right along with that fucking lie right there. I sneered, “I know do I? Seems not so long ago some little boy was asking me,  _ begging _ me to fuck him raw.”

“Brian, that was…” 

“That was, that was,” I mocked him. I don’t feel good about that now but in the moment it felt so fucking satisfying, so there you go. “That was just before you ran off to play at happy families and experience the joys of monogamy with -“

“No!” He cut me off. “I didn’t! We didn’t…”

“Face it Sunshine, you’re no better than those guys Daphne interviews. You think there’s nothing more  _ intimate  _ than skin-on-skin, feeling come dripping out of you.” He turned red and he eyes were glassy with unshed tears and anyone who has a heart would have stopped there. But I don’t and I didn’t. “You thought I bought you a house so we were, what? Mere moments away from some Stepford monogamy fantasy? And when you realized you can’t get the wild leopard to change his spots, you went out and found it elsewhere, huh?” The tears began to fall now and I held back my next comment which, believe me I know it’s hard to imagine, was even crueler than what I had already said. Because fuck it, I did want to protect him still. If even from myself. Because what it seemed like we were facing right then, I couldn’t protect him from and goddamnit not again. This fucking kid. 

I had expected Justin to shout, to become indignant, defensive. To give me something to get some friction against, to continue to rage against, to fill my mind with expletives because that was preferable to any other possibility in this nightmare. Instead he answered quietly, “No, Brian.” 

I gestured at him, my hands still holding the test results. “You haven’t had unprotected sex?”

“Blow jobs, I’ve had blow jobs,” he whispered, looking at the floor.

“You know that’s not what I meant.” That’s a risk we had always both taken. I tried to keep my voice measured and I spoke slowly and I know Justin knew that meant I was angry but it was better than the alternative. “Have. You. Had. Unprotected. Penetrative. Sex.”

Justin chanced a glance up at my face and whispered again, “What if I can’t remember?” 

All in an instant, I felt the world shift on its axis, the papers dropped from my hands, and I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Did you take something?” I wasn’t looking at him, my hand still up around my eyes. 

“No!” Justin wavered. “I mean…”

I lifted my head sideways, my hand still on my forehead, and stared at him standing in the doorway. “How many fucking times have I told you...only do drugs with -” 

“-My friends. I know!” Justin shouted. “I know,” he whispered. 

“Then what happened? How…” I could barely hear myself over the blood rushing through my ears. 

“I don’t know,” Justin sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “Come,” he said softly and turned and went up to the rooftop, flipping on the heat lamp. We had put a refrigerator up there and he pulled two Tecates and opened them, handing one to me. We sat overlooking the construction in the backyard. Justin spoke softly, faltering here and there, and who the fuck could blame him? 

He spoke of lessons from his father of what it means to be a man. Of lessons he learned watching me about the importance of independence and his understanding of how my money had purchased my freedom. He shared of his immaturity and longing to prove himself to himself, to me, to the world that had labeled him a victim. His yearning to be a survivor. To earn my respect. He shared the pain of no longer understanding the world around him, the world he had had so recently reigned over as king. His fear and his desire to get to that courageous space again no matter the cost. And then, in a broken voice, he named the price - the cost that had been or could have been too high. His narrow escape. His decision to conceal from me due to fear that he would once more, still, be seen as a victim by the one person he could bear it from the least. 

I listened, my beer bottle dangled from my fingers, my forearms rested on my thighs, my shoulders hunched, my jaw clenched, and my head hung. I closed my eyes as though that would shut out the images that arose unbidden in my mind, as though that would stop Justin from talking, as though it would stop what he was saying from being true. It seemed losing Justin, in some way or another, is a threat I would always have to live with. And if I lost him, I would survive, but I would never be whole again. 

Justin had stopped talking and questions swirled around my mind, which felt like a pinwheel on fire. But first, “I know you wouldn’t go out looking to bareback, Justin. I don’t know why I said so earlier.” As angry as I had been, he didn’t deserve that. He had been much younger and immature once and that shouldn’t be held against him, especially by me. 

Justin looked at me and shrugged. “You were worried.” 

“I was angry,” I set the record straight.

“Tomato, tomahto.” The kid smirked at me. 

There were more important fish to fry, or whatever. “You didn’t tell me.” It was a fact and an accusation.

“What would have been the point, Brian?” Justin looked up from under his eyelashes.

“We could have...I would have…”

“You would have gotten angry with me.”

“No.”

“Maybe not. You would have gotten angry near me. And couldn’t have handled it, not then.” He had been struggling so much then, more than I had realized. More than he had even realized. “I can barely handle it now.” Another fact and an accusation.

“I know,” I admitted. He placed his finished beer on a side table and put his hand over mine. I looked up at him. “What I don’t understand though…”

“Yeah…?” He stood up and walked to the refrigerator, pulling out another beer and motioning toward me in a silent question. I nodded and he reached back in and pulled out a second. He opened them both and handed one to me and I took a swig and placed it on the table. He remained standing and stared at his beer, peeling the label up. 

“You said...that nothing...that they didn’t...that you weren’t...fuck!”

He glanced up at me and then back at the beer and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “But what if I don’t remember correctly? What if the drugs…?” He paused. “Or my brain injury…?”

I ran my hand over my mouth and let out a breath. “But, Sunshine,” my voice sounded so gentle I almost didn’t recognize it. “This was more than five years ago…” I trailed off. Justin knew as well as I did the average time from exposure to seroconversion and the reliability of antibody testing. We weren’t living entirely in the dark ages anymore. 

“But what if there are other things I can’t remember? Or something happens...someone does something and I don’t realize it? What if…” Justin took a deep breath and launched into description after description of events, each more unlikely than the last and each very unlikely to result in the transmission of HIV. And each one causing him legitimate fear and pain. As he was running out of steam and breath, he concluded with a wobbly voice, “And then I give it to you. And you’re sick. And it’s my fault. I couldn’t live with...I wouldn’t be able to…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know what I would do.” 

“Me? You’re worried about me?”

“I know...even as I’m saying it out loud, how ridiculous this all sounds and the percentage chance is like...nothing.” He sighed. “I don’t care if I get sick - I mean I care, god, of course I care, but I would deal and cope, you know? But the idea that I could get you sick? When you have Gus and you’re… you. I just don’t...fuck!” He put a hand over his eyes and sobbed quietly. The sarcastic comment I was going to make about odds, and positions, and percentages died on my lips.

The winter sun had set long ago and the moon was out. We had been talking for a long time but it suddenly came back to Justin terrified he was going to cause me harm. 

In fairness to me, Justin hadn’t even realized that his OCD had shifted and morphed and taken another form. These days he would know what to look out for, how to recognize the beast before it grew to an unmanageable size, but we were less than a year out from a correct diagnosis, and, well, OCD is a motherfucking cameleon. And the kid was still in the process of figuring out the whole medication thing. By January he had finished tapering off the Wellbutrin and was no longer taking an anticonvulsant. He had seen the new psychiatrist before the holidays and had taken the genetic test. He recently had the follow up visit to review the results and I had tagged along. Now, as a general rule, we’re not in each other’s pockets so much that we accompany each other to doctor’s appointments but Justin’s short-term memory being what it is and complex genetic testing results being what they are, he wanted me there. So I got to be there to hear that, in fact, his genetics indicate that yes Zoloft and other SSRI’s are likely to cause intolerable side effects. We also got the fun news that Justin has a genetic mutation of the MTHFR gene (which I like to call the “motherfucker gene”) which among other things could help explain his vulnerability to depression and anxiety (beyond, you know, having had depressing and traumatizing things happen to him at a significantly higher than average rate) and means he doesn’t metabolize B vitamins correctly, which could help explain some of his fatigue. So we left that appointment armed with all those fun facts, over-the-counter recommendations for a methylated B complex and a Vitamin D supplement as all the equatorial-strength sunscreen he uses apparently created a Vitamin D-deficiency and a plan for Justin to taper off Zoloft and onto Lamictal. The doctor was unorthodox, which I appreciated in many respects - using genetic testing, using medications for off-label use - and didn’t love in others - a plan to taper off one medication and onto another rather than a cross-taper. You wouldn’t call me conservative, not by a longshot, but so help me if I wanted some fucking cautious moderation when it came to my boy’s well-being. 

I guess you could say I was intellectually, rationally prepared for OCD to flare up but what took me by surprise is well first of all, I was expecting Justin to lapse back into checking the door locks, even though he had that well-controlled at that point, and I was expecting it to be more closely timed with starting to taper the Zoloft. But collectively we have learned that illness doesn’t fall into a nice neat narrative, sorry if that disappoints your sensibilities. 

Looking back, I could see it coming together like rewinding a video of someone putting together a puzzle. Talking with Daphne about her research, that lapse around checking the lock in the hotel, the panic attack on the bridge, and uptick in nightmares and nightmares affecting him more severely. This is not to say, never to say, that Justin was miserable. He didn’t seem to be, at least. All that fun I described during the holidays? He was there too, having fun. 

The next night was more of this fun stuff. Justin had promised Quinn we would attend a fundraiser for a leadership camp for LGBT teens that Quinn volunteered with. Justin was always befriending these good-doer types. So we were sitting in Hamburger Mary’s - a diner that honestly put Liberty Diner to shame with how tacky it was but at least had the benefit of strong drinks to take the edge off the assault on all the senses - waiting for drag bingo to start. Drag bingo had started as a way to raise funds for supporting people with AIDS/HIV at the beginning of the crisis and then, later, to help pay for treatment. Now the game benefits rotating causes. It was being hosted by queens Charlamaine Monroe and Hannah Job and was unbelievably loud and obnoxious. Justin won the game when it was “rim job” (fill in all the squares around the free space, obviously), which was appropriately inappropriate. Or inappropriately appropriate. He grinned at me, all lit up, after taking his required victory lap around the place. 

“Mikey would love this place!”

I cocked my head, bit my cheek, and fixed my face in mock shock. “Sunshine! Don’t you think that’s a bit insensitive?” 

His eyes widened. “Insensitive?” He squeaked. 

“I mean  _ both _ Mikey’s parents are drag queens so you automatically assume he’ll love a place with drag queens?” A flush crept up his neck and cheeks. As much as the world has stolen his innocence, and I count myself among the world, his earnestness persists. “I mean you don’t think of Emmett as an Elvis fan just because he’s from Mississippi.” 

It took him a moment and then his grin threatened to break his face. “Brian!”

“Yep?” I looked at him from under my eyelashes. 

“I really just meant the atmosphere, it’s so much like the diner!” He gestured widely with his arms and in the process knocked over his drink, which had been in a tall glass shaped like a leg in fishnets and a stiletto, so karma really for willingly putting something so hideous in his mouth, That caused a bit of a domino effect, knocking over my whisky glass which shattered on the table and onto the floor. “Oh shit!” He cried out and jumped back, but not before his Ultimate Total Top margarita spilled in his lap. Probably not the last time a top was going to be in his pants that night, I guessed, as waiters all rushed to pat him dry and pick up the pieces of glass. Justin, having long worked in this world and will likely never lose his affinity and empathy for waitstaff in be-rainbowed eateries, got out of his seat to help. 

“Shit!” He cried again and stuck his finger in his mouth, his eye squinting a bit with pain. 

I moved around to his side of the table and squatted next to him. I pulled his hand away from his mouth to inspect more closely. A small cut on his pointer finger trickled blood. Nothing terrible. 

“It doesn’t look too bad. Go wash it and we can head out.” We stood up and I pushed him gently in the direction of the restrooms. He nodded and walked away while I helped finish cleaning up and settling the tab, leaving a hefty tip because if Justin will always have an affinity for waitstaff in these types of places, so will I. 

I waited for Justin to emerge from the back and when I saw him, I knew he was anxious.

Justin has three distinct smiles. There’s his sunshine smile, no more needs to be said about that. There’s his raised to be polite country club smile. And then there’s the “I’m undressing you and doing unspeakably dirty things to you in my mind” smile that is accompanied by a slow blink. When he’s excited, he bounces like there’s no force in the universe that contain his incredible energy. When he’s deep in thought, he bites his thumbnail. And when he’s anxious, really anxious, he twists the hair at the nape of his neck. 

When he walked back over to me, his cut was wrapped in wad of toilet paper, and he was holding his hand against his chest, and his left hand was twisted up in his hair. When he saw me, he forced his polite smile, which never reaches his eyes, and asked, “Ready to get going?” 

We were supposed to head to The Abbey but, “Are you sure you don’t want to swing by home and change your pants?”   
“Nah, it’s okay. It barely got on me. C’mon let’s get out of here!” He urged me along, his eyes not settling on any one thing. 

“Let’s get going then, Sunshine,” I said as we headed out the door into the much cooler air. We walked down Santa Monica towards the bars, my arm resting on Justin’s shoulders. We talked about the stuff we always talk about. His classes, the next issue of Rage, and a big campaign Kinnetik might get the contract for. As we approached the heart of West Hollywood and neared our turn for the club, Justin slowed his pace and said, “Hey, I’ll meet you there. I’ll be there in a few minutes, okay?” And turned to cross the street in the other direction. 

Like I said, I don’t micromanage his dick, but I saw one of the ubiquitous mobile testing units set up in front of the pizza place. I turned around and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Slow your roll there, cowboy.” 

Justin looked at me, eyebrows raised, and I just kind of stared at him and glanced across the street and back at him. His shoulders slumped a little, like some of the air being let out of a balloon. “You know that’s not how this works. A test is not going to -”

“I wasn’t going to get a test,” Justin insisted. I lifted an eyebrow. He shook his head slightly and spoke more quietly. “I was going to see if I could get PEP.” Post-exposure prophylaxis, the Plan B of HIV. 

I looked at him a moment. “Justin, you’re going to tell them you cut yourself on a piece of glass and they’re not going to prescribe it to you.”

“But - “

“You know as well as I do that’s not a significant risk for exposure. How many times did you cut yourself at the diner? You needed stitches that time, remember? No one suggested you take PEP. You didn’t even think of it.” His eyes widened. “And for good reason! There’s no risk there. C’mon you know this.”

He looked down at his feet and shifted his weight. “I know,” he said and then tilted his head up to the sky. 

“Have you...talked with your therapist about this?” I suggested with some hesitation.

“No,” he breathed out. “I didn’t think, I didn’t realize, it was...I thought I was kinda just being super cautious. You know? Until I saw you standing there with all those test results. And I realized how goddamn ridiculous I’ve been.”

I tugged him into me and shifted us back and forth a bit. “It’s not ridiculous. It’s OCD. You can’t help it.” 

He leaned his forehead against mine and sighed again, “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” We stood for a moment, the sounds of the city swirling around us, people laughing and talking, car horns sounding, muffled music playing from inside all the bars and clubs. I felt Justin square his shoulders and look up at me. “Well? What are we waiting for? Let’s go, Brian!” And he took off down the street toward the club. Brave fucker. 

A few days later I awoke to my cell phone going off. What the fuck time was it? I looked at the caller ID which read “Cynthia” and the time which was 6 AM. Of course, it was business hours in Pittsburgh and there was a call I was waiting for no matter the hour. I flipped the phone open and whispered, “One second,” as I grabbed my sweatpants from the floor and tugged them on. I glanced at Justin, who was still asleep. I walked softly out of the bedroom and into the home office. “Tell me,” I demanded.

“We got it!” She sounded, rightly, overjoyed. 

“This is fantastic news, do you know what this means for our first quarter financials?” I heard Ted.

“Jesus, Cynthia, am I on speaker?” I cleared my throat, hoping to get rid of the just-woken-up hoarseness. Not that anyone expected a reasonable person to be awake for an unplanned business call at 6 AM but I don’t want rumors that I’m a reasonable person to start. 

I heard some clicking and Cynthia, “Not anymore. Sorry about that.” And then, more muffled, “Ted. we’ll celebrate later with mimosas and whatever it is you drink...cranberry juice? With mimosas and cranberry juice then. Yes...yes...no...yes. See you later, Ted...And I’m back.”

“This is big, Cynthia.” I stated the obvious as I felt a smile grow across my face. 

“I know. Really fucking big, Brian.” I could hear her shit-eating grin. 

“Uhh, make sure everyone gets those mimosas, okay? And none of that cheap champagne, hmm?” I scratched at my head a second. “Oh, and let them out early for the day. No one’s going to get anything done champagne-drunk and they all know they’re going to be putting in a lot of late hours and weekends in the coming weeks...fuck, coming months.”

“Sure thing boss.” She calls me boss when she’s a bit giddy. 

“And Cynthia?” I added. 

“Yes?”

“Find out from Ted if this first quarter financials miracle will allow me to hire more of a staff here in LA, okay?” I had been getting by just fine with just an assistant but it would be nice to have more of a full-fledged office to work with. 

“...uh, sure thing. But, Brian?”

I did not like that that tone. I sighed, “Yes?”

“You realize for a campaign as large as Duohammer Industries...you’re going to need to be here much more than you have been?” I, of course, had, but not on the real visceral level that I was realizing it now. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Such is the cost of success.” I tried to keep my tone light. 

Cynthia snorted. “And what a success it is. Really Brian, I know I don’t have to tell you, but a national campaign of this magnitude, within five years of opening your doors? You should be proud.” 

I chuckled. “I think most would prefer I keep my ego a bit in check.”

“Maybe not today. Return to your usual humility tomorrow.” Cynthia joked back. “And with that, I should go inform the masses that today we party, tomorrow we work… that means you too, okay, Brian? Take today off. Celebrate. Buy Justin something pretty.”

I laughed again, “Yes ma’am.”

She snorted again. “With that, I’m hanging up.”

I returned to the bedroom. The windows there were not the floor-to-ceiling of the downstairs but were still large. Sun was pouring in and Justin was curled up asleep. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s struggled on and off with insomnia. It was, of course, worse when other things were worse. And the new medication, Lamictal, had side effects of drowsiness and insomnia listed so with his brilliant luck, Justin’s insomnia was worse while he was beginning to taper up. He had barely slept at all last night. Everytime I looked over at him, he was reading with a little LED light clipped to his paperback. But for all his difficulty falling asleep, he could sleep in like no one else I knew and, also unlike anyone else I knew, wasn’t disturbed by the sun in the bedroom. I struggled to stay asleep once the sun rose, if we hadn’t drawn the curtains the night before. I gazed at him, the sunlight creating a halo around his blonde hair and making his skin almost glow. I sighed lightly and then showered and got dressed. I headed to the home office and looked a few things up on my laptop before heading out. 

When I came back a few hours later, Justin was in the dining room at our long table drinking coffee and flipping through storyboards for Rage. He looked up and grinned at me. I placed everything in my hands by the door and walked over and draped myself over his back and nuzzled into his hair. “Guess what.”

“Hmmm?”

“No seriously, guess.”

He twisted around in his chair and looked up at me, eyes wide, his grin even larger, and god when he looks at me like that it makes me feel like he thinks I hung the moon for him. “You got it?” He whispered, as though he believed if he said it in anything louder than sotto voce, he might jinx what has already happened. 

“We got it.”

He jumped up and threw himself at me. I caught him and he wrapped his legs around my waist and kissed me deeply. When he pulled back to catch his breath, I said, “That’s not all.”

I carried him to the entryway and he asked, “There’s more?”

“Well, Cynthia did say to buy you something pretty.” 

He immediately blushed. “Brian you didn’t have to get me anything.”

I turned us around and gestured with my elbow to a box on the floor. It had “NKLA” stamped on it and holes in the top. Justin gave me a confused look and slid down my body like it was firepole. He kneeled next to the box and looked up at me. “You got me a cat?” 

I cleared my throat and looked down slightly to the side of where he was kneeling. “Well, um, I’m going to have to be out of town, back in Pittsburgh, a lot for the next few months.” He nodded, still looking confused. “What?”

“Do you even...like cats?”

“Sure, I like them just fine. My roommate in college had one.” He gaped at me. “They keep to themselves, they’re clean, they’re self-important. What’s not to like?”

“That’s surprising…”

“Don’t go thinking this applies to all domesticated creatures. No dogs, Sunshine. They’re always bouncing around and trying to get in your crotch, not for me.” I paused and considered Justin for a moment. “With one notable suggestion.” 

Justin groaned and then said, hesitatingly, “Well if you’re sure about this…” I nodded. He opened up the box and reached in and pulled out an overweight gray tabby who was missing one eye. 

“His eye...they had to remove it. He’s fine now. I figured you would want the underdog, er, undercat.” 

Justin looked up at me and smiled. “He’s purring.”

“Yeah I hear they do that...uh, he’s fixed and, um, I had to promise not to declaw him...oh and they called him Ru at the shelter but I think you can change it. He probably won’t respond either way.”

“No, Ru is good. We like Ru,” he said softly while I admired how Ru’s fur looked against Justin’s hair. There’s something to be said for choosing pets that best compliment one’s features, no different from a shirt or a tie, although what would Justin know about that? 

“Those other bags are food and some toys and a litter box...speaking of, Justin?”

“Hmm?” He didn’t look up from where he had buried his face in the cat’s neck. 

“Justin?”

“Yeah, yeah, the litter box is all me. Don’t worry.” I nodded and kneeled beside him and sunk my fingers into Ru’s fur. I still wasn’t entirely sure what had come over me that morning that resulted in me now having a cat with my partner but it wasn’t entirely terrible. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So a few notes! If you don’t want author chattiness, skip it, you’re not missing anything.
> 
> The title to this part is taken from How to Survive a Plague: The Inside Story of how Citizens and Science Tamed AIDS (David France, 2016). It is a good but very whitewashed history of the ACT UP movement. There’s a documentary by the same name, but I haven’t watched it. It is not my favorite book about the AIDS crisis (that would be Borrowed Time: An AIDS Memoir, Paul Monette, 1988) but the best one that fit this story. 
> 
> The reference to “ghost spots” is lifted directly from Call Me By Your Name (the book, not the movie, André Aciman, 2007) except my use here is much less heartbreaking than the original. And...oh god, I really have a type, don’t I?
> 
> Drag Bingo is a real thing! As are the leg glasses. Nothing is served in real glass though as it does get crowded and rowdy. 
> 
> The camp mentioned here was not in existence in 2007 but exists now, [ Brave Trails Camp ](www.bravetrails.org), and does remarkable work with LGBTQIA+ youth and operates both in Southern CA and Maryland.


End file.
